


The Heart of the Forest

by bardlygo



Series: The Keeper's Collective [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal death (minor), Cottagecore, F/M, First Meetings, Hunting for food, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25147798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardlygo/pseuds/bardlygo
Summary: It is said in the ancient elven lore that the heart-tree of every great forest houses a spirit dedicated to the protection of the woods it sprouted.Now, 50 years after the Great Cleansing began, very few heart trees are left. The chaos that once thrummed through the bones of the Continent thins as humans continuously refine and synthesize it for their own purposes. Nilfgaard expands further into the North, a steady march to absorb the countries that exhaust themselves in fighting back. Destiny whispers names on the wind and promises they belong to those who can help.If what remains of the heart trees is to be preserved, such people are the Continent's last hopes.Talia intends to find them all.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Keeper's Collective [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826710
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. the damp grass that yields to me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is going to be my first _ever_ attempt at a published longfic, exploring one of my many OC’s and her relationship with the canon characters - primarily Jaskier and Geralt, set in the timeline of the Netflix series, blended with elements of the games and books.
> 
> Most of the lore that I put in here is going to be self-made, because I want to inject my own type of fantasy into the world of the Witcher _and nobody is around to stop me._
> 
> Chapters will have individual content warnings for potential triggers in the beginning notes. If there’s something that is a trigger that I haven't covered, please just leave a comment and I’ll add it into the tags/chapter notes, which will be updated as we continue.
> 
> Thank you to [Andie](https://twitter.com/AndieDeclyn), [Dallie](https://twitter.com/troubadorer), and [Erika](https://twitter.com/Panslostandroid), who helped me develop and grow Talia from a small idea and a notion of wanting to shamelessly have an OC to throw at our favorite boys to a well-rounded and interesting character with lore to back her up in the Witcher universe.
> 
> That said, come join me on this wild ride. I look forward to sharing her with you, the reader.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Into the woods, it's time and so_
> 
> _We must begin our journey…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CW: Hunting an animal for food / animal death. (No, it’s not the horse.) Tiny mention of blood.
> 
> Thank you, Andie, for answering my many questions about hunting and dressing game!

The forest does not hold its breath for the gentle creak of a bow as its string is drawn taut. Rather, a woman of dark hair and lithe build stills the steady rise and fall of her chest while her gaze tracks a grouse that struts across the bank of the lake. Sunlight is cast in patches that ripple over the ground as a breeze gently rocks boughs and leaves above her. The _whoosh_ of a fired arrow is lost to the sound of wind in the canopy as the grouse drops.

Talia stands. Her strides towards the bank of the lake are quick and she crouches to check the creature’s breath. It is dead - killed quickly by her well-placed shot. A gentle hand comes to rest upon its body to murmur a thanks for its sacrifice. Only the whisper of the leaves replies as her fingers nimbly remove the arrow from the grouse’s neck. The meat will make for a hearty meal, the feathers will make for good fletching. After dressing it so the meat will not spoil, her feet carry her to the edge of the lake. She dunks her hands in the water to rinse them before she makes her way back to where she’s kept her dapple-gray riding mare. Laurel’s lead is looped around the thick trunk of an oak, but not tied. There is no fear of the creatures hurting her. Not when she belongs to the flaminika of Cintra’s forests. 

A soft muzzle bumps into Talia’s shoulder, which earns Laurel a smile and gentle pat on her strong neck. The air around them is still cool but slowly warming with the ever-steady sun and buzz of summer bugs. There is no sense in disrupting the gentle spell still set upon the forest as it wakes. Not with something as shallow as human speech.

Talia hoists herself into the saddle after bagging the bird in a light linen pouch and tying it to Laurel’s side. The heavy coin purse bouncing against her leg reminds her that she has to venture out of her forests to fetch the things she does not make for herself - soap, thread and cloth, new fittings for leather armor... The profit she made from turning in one of the largest deer the Dalhurst province had seen in four summers still makes itself known as an unnecessary weight on her person. 

Perhaps she’ll allow herself a more luxurious purchase while in town.

Laurel responds to the lightest of touch - she’s trained well, Talia takes pride in that - and begins the quiet amble through the woods to reach the well-beaten path that travelers and merchants follow when they want to reach the city proper. Cintra is something she avoids whenever she can. Its gleaming existence, its gates and keep and tall buildings often draw a derisive sneer to her face. Worse yet, it’s a reminder of the Great Cleansing. She’d rather not recall any such sour parts of history. To be faced with those painful reminders of what “humanity” was capable of, wherever she looked… 

Talia would rather spend her time outside the city walls.

She rides in silence until the trees begin to clear.

\- x -

The birdsong diminishes with each step further from the treeline, and so too does the shade from the canopy. Dalhurst isn’t far, but the added weight of her leather armor she wears for her hunts and patrols makes it difficult to enjoy the occasional faint breeze that flits by.

She reaches the village without much event. Her waterskin is empty, however, and will need refilling before she’s to leave. Laurel also needs time to cool off, so Talia guides her to the stable as she’s entering town, dismounts, and passes a few coins to the boy that runs up to greet her.

“Make sure she’s watered and fed. Leave the saddle, but cool her off best you can. I’ll be back within a few hours.”

He nods and scurries off to go fetch what she presumes to be food. Her fingers undo the tie holding the bag to Laurel’s saddle and fasten it instead to the kidney belt she wears. After fetching her waterskin from her pack, Talia sets out into the streets. The chatter of people surrounds her now. Children squeal and race across her path and most have the good sense to give them a wide berth. The gentle tones of a lute and a man’s voice float above the general hubbub.

_“Toss a coin to your Witcher_

_O' Valley of Plenty_

_O' Valley of Plenty, o-o-oh…”_

The subject material is enough to pique her interest, but not enough to distract her from her goal. Talia only catches the flash of eyes that match the brilliant blue of a doublet in her periphery before she steps into the butcher’s shop.

It is a blessed two and a half hours later when she can finally leave the village with everything she has need of to keep her stocked for another month. Her return to the stables is a break from bustling crowds, where only the dusty scent of hay is what makes her wrinkle her nose. Laurel has been brushed and looks refreshed. Her dark eyes track Talia’s, and it is enough to bring a small smile to her cheeks. 

“Did he take good care of you,” Talia murmurs. A huff of hot air blasts her face, and she runs a hand down her mare’s snout. “Good. We’re headed back home. Load’s a bit heavier, though.” Despite Laurel’s playfully annoyed whicker, Talia _does_ make sure the load is evenly distributed among the two bags before even putting her foot in a stirrup. Once she has hopped into the saddle, she passes two more coins to the young boy and nods.

“Her compliments."

Before he can react, she presses her heels into Laurel’s sides and sets off at a comfortable trot, eager to return to the quiet sanctuary of the deep woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaahh! And there you have it! The introduction to what will hopefully be a long and lovely story.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Chapter title from **In a Week** by Hozier.
> 
> \- x -
> 
> Leaders of druid circles are known as **hierophants** , if they are male, and **flaminikas** , if they are female. [Source.](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Druid)


	2. into the trees with empty hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destiny whispers a name on the wind. A bard is found. Talia gets irritated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CW: N/A

When Talia is not in danger of small children or wayward adults crossing her path, she urges Laurel from her steady trot into a short gallop. She wants nothing more than to put as much distance between her and the village as possible. _People_ are not her strong suit. They never have been.

Talia is content to keep it that way.

Cool wind whips at her hair and flushed cheeks as the golden sun beams down in its relentless trek across a cloudless and azure blue sky. The steady triple thump of hooves upon well-trodden dirt loses out to the rush of air in her ears. For as much as she adores the forest, to be able to ride past wide and open fields is a treasured gift.

Laurel’s sprint does not last long. It is perhaps a minute and halfway over before the reins are tugged and she slows gradually. The tree line of the forest has crept into their view, and Talia always treats the approach with an abundance of respect. There is no telling what lurks past a cursory or passing glance. She is not the only one to call the forest her home, and if watching her step means not unnecessarily displacing an animal, she’s happy to take the precaution.

The bulk of her journey to and from what one might call “civilization” is here among these trees but it is moments like these that make her return that much sweeter. The forest always seems to greet her as an old friend, never tiring in its calm welcome. Silence is just as welcome relief as shade. As the woods grow thicker, her heart settles. Laurel’s hoofbeats keep a steady rhythm with the melody of lilting birdsong and buzzing insects. Her gentle sway begins to lull Talia into a sense of security, and she allows her mind to wander. (There is no worry of getting lost - Laurel knows the way back home, she needs no guidance other than speed.) A breeze toys with leaves and boughs that tower above her while sunrays fade in and out of existence as easily as breathing. The heat of the noon-day sun is not nearly so miserable when it is scattered and dispersed into tiny pools of light that dance across the ground.

The soft sound of singing carries above the breeze and birdcalls. She relaxes and her eyes drift shut for only a moment before the realization hits her. She hears _singing_. Singing from something humanoid, not just the call and response of animals around her.

Talia halts Laurel’s gait with a quiet command and a tug at the reins. 

Any type of music in the woods is _never_ a good sign. It usually means fae have taken an interest in strangers nearby and are trying to lure them closer, usually humans unwise to their tricks. She loathes having to warn the people of Dalhurst of the forest’s many dangers. They do not always heed her caution and grow complacent with time.

Such complacency is swiftly corrected when the woods take someone who treads too far or lacks much common sense.

Loathe it as she does, Talia must investigate its source. She doesn’t mess with the fae - their relationship is respectfully distant at best. No, it is best if her focus is directed towards the human stupid enough to wander into these woods and pretty enough to catch the attention of immortal trickster beings.

Laurel only complains slightly when she has to turn around, and with a gentle nudge of Talia’s heels, breaks into a trot that quickly becomes a canter.

The singing gets louder.

Her fingers tingle with unchanneled chaos. Laurel’s gait slows as she reaches a slope, but relief (and irritation) floods Talia when she finds the source of the singing.

Ambling down the path, now only a short distance away from her, is a man. His mop of brown hair curls from the sweat that dampens his forehead. He wears a rather ostentatious and unfastened doublet and matching trousers that _would_ be a deep blue were they not dusty from the road. Even his chemise is florid, and Talia’s nose wrinkles in distaste. He is not dressed for the road - his boots are ill-fitting, he’s carrying a valuable instrument in plain view…

She was unfortunately correct in guessing his level of sense.

Laurel slows before him, and the imposing sight of a leather-armored body upon a well-kept horse brings him to a halt as well. The stranger grins and dips into a mock bow. Before he can open his mouth to speak, Talia holds a hand up. Her face is twisted into a scowl.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was following you,” the man says. Talia’s frown only grows. The furrow in her brow deepens as she glares at the stranger. Her frown seems to have an inverse effect on him - causes his droll grin to spread wide across his cheeks. “You see, my lady - I’m a bard, and it’s our duty to discover stories untold! Your presence in town caused quite the stir, in fact-”

The stranger rambles and Talia almost instantly tunes him out. It is best to let the humans of the outside world tire themselves with explanations and excuses before she tells them to leave. Interrupting them only serves to extend the grating process. His monologue draws to a close - she thinks she catches something about onion and a wolf - and Talia sighs.

“Leave.”

“I- What?”

“ _Leave_ ,” she repeats with a glare. Her legs squeeze Laurel’s sides gently, but… Laurel does not budge.

A shiver runs down her neck as the wind picks up around them. It begins gently at first - leaves rustle a bit louder than usual, the boughs above them seem to wave, and the thinner of tall trees sway slightly. The bard is verbally protesting, launching into another diatribe about the importance of sharing the hidden stories of the world. Talia is too busy listening to the woods around her to pay attention to his indignance.

There are things she does not question about the forest. To do so is the decision of the unwise or unaware. Everything is allowed its secrets, and she knows not to push when she brushes up against them on accident. They reveal themselves to her eventually. She is a druid, and these lands are her home and friend. The forest has a history, has scars. It breathes and _speaks_ in ways most don’t understand. One only needs to listen for long enough, and extend it enough patience and respect to begin understanding its language.

She is certain this stranger finds no significance in the gentle creak of wood and whispers upon the wind that ruffles his warm brown curls. Talia, however… Talia knows exactly what this forest is telling her. She has not dared tempt the chaos of these lands into sending a more direct message (as it used to when she was but a novice in its language).

Still, she tries to wheedle and bargain, because she truly does not want to be responsible for the safety of this utter _fool_ before her.

 _‘Not this one,’_ she begs mentally, _‘He’s too pretty to retain any sense. I’ll invest time in him and he’ll simply turn around and waste it - become a meal for a creature’s hungry children.’_

The woods do not seem to care for her pleas. The wind picks up and the trees almost feel like they’re _staring_ at her. Judging. Waiting.

Talia pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers with a long-suffering sigh. There are times she assumes she is beginning to understand the chaos of these woods. Those flashes of understanding are snuffed as quickly as a candle flame in a gale. 

“If it will keep you out of trouble, and get you off my back, you may stay in my home for one night.”

The wind dies down a little, and any sunlight that had disappeared as an ominous warning simply serves to return in the form of the bard’s smile.

“Oh,” he exhales with a happy strum of his lute, “You will _not_ regret this!”

“I already do.” A gentle tug on the reins and another press of the heels set Laurel back down the path home. She doesn’t bother to look over her shoulder - she knows he is following her.

‘ _It’s only for one night,_ ’ she tells herself, ‘ _Only one. Tolerate him. Escort him out when you are done. Chaos works in ways unknown to you, this_ has _to be for something.’_

“May I have your name, by the way,” the bard quips. Nonchalant notes from his lute fill the air the way they did when she first began her search for him. His tone is innocent; the way the question is phrased is not. She prickles and glances down at him. Still, he wears that godsdamned smile. She considers punching him but thinks of the trees that loom and decides her urges would best be kept to herself. Talia’s knuckles whiten as she grips the reins just a bit tighter.

“What do you need my name for?”

“...familiarity? Friendship?”

“We’re not friends.”

“We’re not friends _yet_ ,” the bard corrects her. If he continues to smirk at her, Talia is _certain_ her fist will find purchase somewhere on his body. “You know, you remind me very much of a man I’ve traveled with. Surly type of fellow, actually the man I mentioned earlier. He’s - ”

“What about you? What’s your name?” She doesn’t mention that she wasn’t paying attention earlier, better to just cut him off before he can go down another pointless tangent.

“Well, I asked you first.” The man stops playing his lute, crosses his arms over his chest. He reminds her of an impetuous child when he stops walking - like that is enough an incentive to get her attention.

While such tactics don't work on the druid, they most certainly work on her horse.

“I’m not telling you my name until you tell me yours,” Talia insists. Laurel, meanwhile, comes to a halt and turns a little to allow her a better line of sight of the stranger. Her neck is now not craned as she glares.

They’re at an impasse - staring at one another until a shrug lifts the man’s shoulders.

“Well, if the lady _demands_ it of me, who am I to refuse,” he says. Another sweeping bow. “You may refer to me as _Jaskier_ , fair maiden! Troubadour extraordinaire and barker to the White Wolf himself! I’m certain you’ve heard of me, my song _has_ traveled quite rapidly across the continent.” Jaskier’s fingers dance across the lute strings and she recognizes a snippet of the tune he was singing in town earlier. His smile is brilliant and radiates pride the way a bonfire sheds heat. 

Talia does not applaud or coo at the introduction, nor the riff. In fact, the extent of her reaction confines itself to the quirk of an eyebrow. She _has_ heard it in passing once or twice - excluding his own performance. 

“Jaskier,” she says quietly to herself. The name rolls off her tongue and a cool breeze gently tickles wisps of her own dark hair across her cheeks. 

“You may call me Talia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Cass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic) for beta reading this for me!
> 
> Chapter title from **In The Woods Somewhere** by Hozier.


	3. back to the hedgerows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having offered respite to a wandering fool, Talia must now deal with him until mid-day tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CW: N/A

Cicadas buzz and chirp their sleepy summer song as the once-warm white spots that shimmered across the forest floor slant and shift to a rich golden orange. Talia’s returning journey to her cottage has taken twice as long thanks to the stumbling and unsure footing of her new companion. She had tried - truly tried - not to laugh when he tripped and got a faceful of dirt and grass. A snort did escape her, though, and was just barely disguised by a well-timed huff from Laurel. The horse has again stopped and turned her undisturbed gaze to the bard. She reminds Talia of a mother at this moment: stopping to make sure a child hasn’t strayed too far or isn’t terribly injured.

Jaskier pops back up the same way a child does. He looks unhurt - only bearing wounded pride as he brushes the dark earth off his already-dusty clothing.

“Are we almost there, then?”

“Nearly,” Talia replies. Her tone still carries a haughty irritation to it. Had he not been in her company, she would not have needed to go so slowly or help him disentangle him from a thicket of thorns that she quite clearly told him to avoid despite appearing as a shortcut. Had he not been in her company, she could have galloped down the stretches of the forest path instead of been met with an indignant whine any time she sped up to a simple trot.

Still, as the trees thin and clear, her heart warms in the setting sun. There is a slight mugginess to the heat around them, and Talia dismounts from Laurel as soon as her hooves touch the edge of the meadow that makes her front yard. The scent of wildflowers and grass fills the air as they follow the well-trodden path to the cabin that sits about 20 paces away - the opposite side of the field.

A cabin, only one story tall, sits neatly at the edge of the treeline. It is rough-hewn and weathered smooth from years of elemental exposure, but not due to poor construction. No, the rustic quality that it holds never fails to evoke nostalgia in those who lay their eyes on the home - even in those who are total strangers. Adjacent to it is a humble barn, which is equally as well-built, but taller than the cottage. Talia leads Laurel towards it. Her horse’s head bobs in appreciative understanding while Talia shares a small and private smile in response.

“I know,” she murmurs, “You’ve been so patient this afternoon. You’ll get two apples tonight, for dealing with him.” Jaskier is far enough away that the quiet exchange is easily missed. Laurel nudges her shoulder and mouths gently at her to show, no, she doesn’t mind the company. A brief moment of worry flashes across Talia’s mind - a foolish concern. Part of her wonders if Jaskier is going to sneak Laurel sugarcubes when she isn’t paying attention.

She doesn’t understand why that sends a sharp pang of jealousy through her chest.

“Ah! What a quaint little home.” The bard has caught up to them by now and interrupted their conversation, causing Talia’s smile to vanish. “Did you build this yourself?”

“Yes.” Her face is largely neutral (and only slightly betrays her exasperation).

“Incredible,” he says with that same boyish grin, “A woman of great beauty and skill. How is it that you haven’t snagged yourself a companion of... a more amiable nature, hmm?”

The words stop Talia in her tracks. She slowly turns her head and her baleful gaze continues to fail in deterring the nosy bard from speaking. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she says, “But living the life of a hermit in the woods is hardly conducive to romance.”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier says with a fantastic flutter of hands. He’s smiling, still smiling, and Talia rolls her eyes and turns on the spot to continue leading Laurel into her stall. Jaskier follows, continues to babble as she removes the saddlebags, then the saddle itself. “A fair maiden, leading a humble existence away from civilization and the tedious day-to-day of settled life? Free to adventure wherever she so chooses? Introduced to a handsome stranger, the two falling instantly and madly in love-”

“Are you meant to be the handsome stranger in this?”

Tallia takes a smug pleasure in the spluttering her comment earns.

“I am affronted,” Jaskier says, “that you would think of me so low a bard to sing of my own exploits! That is one of the first rules of our trade, Talia, we sing about everything but ourselves, not-”

“Do you substitute the singing for talking?”

That seems enough to sour the bard’s overly sunny disposition and earn a pout and glare. She’ll take a childish wrinkle of the nose or irked huff over his inane stream of chatter for the time being.

Brushing Laurel down is easy, and far more tolerable in the quiet only disturbed by the sleepy chirps of peeping frogs that grow in their chorus as the sun sets. The bundles of herbs hung around her stall to deter pests only require a quick shake to agitate their scent and ensure she won’t be bothered after her long day of work. The sharper scent of citronella, lemon, and eucalyptus has become a nightly constant in the barn - one that signals the goats it is time to return inside because food is coming for them not long after.

The slight clank and clatter of their metal bells would be enough to signal their arrival, were it not for their excited bleating to go along with it. One, a white-and-brown patched creature, comes trotting up to Jaskier and nudges his thigh with its face. Instantly, his petulant sourness melts and he reaches down to pet its head.  
“And who is this?”

“This is Rosemary,” Talia says as the other goat, jet black with longer horns and beard, ambles in. “That one over there is Basil.”

“Oh, hello little guy,” Jaskier coos as Rosemary begins to meander off towards her already-open stall door. His eyes are bright and Talia doesn’t have time to warn him as she watches the following events unfold. As he crouches, Basil too lowers his head and charges forward before the bard has time to stand - much less scramble out of the way.

Talia barks out a laugh when Jaskier ends up ass-over-teakettle on the dirt floor in the barn as the result of his unintentional challenge towards a goat about as immature and foolhardy as he is. Before Basil can do any more damage, Talia firmly grabs his legs and guides him to his back so she’s standing above him, her legs pressed firmly in at his sides, just under his shoulder. She fights the smile on her face as Jaskier wheezes, tries to maintain a stern tone as she admonishes the goat for his behavior.

“That was rude.”

He bleats in assent, and she has to fight the grin even harder.

“I know it’s tradition. Scoot, you bastard.”

She moves her legs from Basil’s side, helps him stand, and swats him firmly on the butt to get him to scamper off into his stall. Another indignant bleat as she swings his door shut and latches it closed. Talia admonishes him for his attitude with naught but a warning look before turning back to the bard and burying her bemused smile.

“I was going to thank you for not knocking the wind out of me,” Jaskier wheezes from the ground, “But it seems your little friend took that upon himself.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” she mutters. Still, she extends a hand to him with a shrug. “Come on, get up. Dinner has yet to be made.”

Jaskier’s fingers slip into Talia’s, and she finds herself caught off guard. She was expecting a soft set of hands and a weak grasp - not callused fingers or a firm grip that precedes a steady tug. As the bard now stands once again before her, her head tilts to the side.

“Is getting punched a common occurrence for you, then?”

“Ah. Usually, I am skilled in slipping away before the hit lands, but it appears I seem to have particularly bad luck with dark figures going straight for the gut.” Talia makes note of the fact that he hasn’t let go of her hand. Raises an eyebrow as she glances at their intertwined fingers, at which Jaskier releases his grip as though something has burned him. “Oh, my apologies, I-”

“Don’t apologize,” Talia says as she passes Jaskier the saddlebags, “Go inside and put these on the table. I’ll be in momentarily.”

His mouth opens - perhaps to protest or launch into another diatribe, she suspects - but no sound emits. Instead, the bard remains quiet, nods, and takes the bags. He exits the barn with not so much as a peep. When Talia is sure he is out of range, she presses her forehead to Laurel’s nose and sighs deeply.

“What am I going to do with him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Cass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic) for beta reading this for me!
> 
> Chapter title from **Shrike** by Hozier.


End file.
